The Thief Taker (4 page)

Chapter Six

Maria’s house had leaded diamonds of real glass for windows. It was made in the half-timbered style, with an overhanging to counterweight the second storey floorboards and prevent them from bouncing underfoot. Bonfire smoke and mud stained the once-white walls, but besides these unavoidable scars of city living it was a clean residence.

Charlie eyed the exterior. Usually his thief taker clients numbered the common sort, who lived in backrooms and squats. Or aristocrats, who met with him in the nicer sort of ale-houses and taverns. The idea of entering a domestic home was a novelty.

He had often tried to imagine what it was like inside walls built for no other purpose than living in.

There was no red cross to show it was a plague house. And Charlie felt a stirring of unease. Something about the situation didn’t add up.

‘Why is there no plague cross?’ he asked.

‘Good fortune,’ said Maria. ‘We were sure they would find us out and shut us up in the house. But the constable never did.’

She used her hip to give the wooden door an extra shove.

‘We have been burning hops and brimstone to fumigate the
h
ouse,
and
the heat warped the wood,’ she added, nodding to the door.

Charlie felt his lungs spasm in a quick succession of sneezes as they entered. The smoke seemed to have got into the very walls and the air smelt of dry bonfire.

A kitchen made up almost all of the downstairs storey with hanging fabric dividing a further portion which Charlie guessed to be a small larder. Probably the house did not extend to a garden and so they bought their meat and vegetables from stalls and used the Thames as a washroom and toilet.

There was no body here, and they stood for a moment.

‘The scene is upstairs,’ supplied Maria.

Charlie had a sudden feeling of the entire second storey bearing down on them both. With difficulty, he stopped himself from staring towards the ladder which led to the upper rooms.

Instead he let his gaze sweep around the room in which they stood. A large cauldron hung from the hearth, shining in a manner which suggested it was proudly cared for, with vegetable and pudding nets hung above it. The kind of rooms Charlie rented wouldn’t have housed a cauldron even if he could have afforded one, and he mostly lived on bread and cheese when money was tight and pies and baked potatoes from street-stalls when he had the means.

He thought for a moment, trying to imagine how he might approach the situation if it were a simple theft.

‘Did your sister have any possessions of value?’ he asked, weighing up the circumstances. ‘Something it might be worth murdering her for?’

Maria shook her head slowly.

‘Most of what we had was sold, when we moved to London,’ she said. ‘Eva had some trinkets. Earrings from my mother. But they were not taken.’

‘No clothes removed? No money?’

‘No.’

‘Was anything else removed from the house?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did your sister have any enemies?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘Can you think of someone who would want to harm her?’

Maria shook her head. But Charlie thought he caught a flash of something in her expression.

‘Jealous lovers?’ he pressed, ‘rejected suitors?’

In his experience, this tended to make up the mainstay of
London
violent crime towards women.

A flush appeared on Maria’s neck.

‘She was popular with men,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘But none of those who liked her would want to hurt her.’

Her face had closed down, and Charlie decided to change the line of questioning.

‘Did you notice anything about the man?’ he said, ‘When he entered the house?’

‘Besides his being dressed as a plague doctor?’ Her voice had a note of sarcasm.

‘A stutter in his voice? A limp? Something to mark him out.’

‘No. But likely we were too overawed by the spectacle. Plague doctors are fearsome-looking.’

‘Did he do or say anything, before he went upstairs?’

‘He asked Eva’s age.’

Charlie logged this. ‘How old was she?’

Maria swallowed at the past tense.

‘Twenty-two.’ Her voice quavered, and then her face hardened again almost instantly.

‘Younger than you?’

‘Two years older.’

Maria seemed older than twenty, thought Charlie. She had a prudent competence about her. The kind you might find in a housekeeper.

‘Do you remember anything else?’ asked Charlie.

She paused for a moment. ‘He put a toad in a jar. He said it would purify the air,’ she added. ‘Do you have the toad still?’

This was the kind of evidence Charlie could use. It might tell him what part of London the murderer came from.

But Maria shook her head. ‘We threw it in the Thames.’

Charlie was silent for a moment, knowing the next move should be to wherever the body lay. His mind drifted to the last time he had stood alone with a girl and he felt his cheeks redden.

‘Would it be easier if the murderer had taken some property?’ asked Maria, giving no indication she was thinking the same.

‘Yes.’ Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the hatch in the ceiling where he assumed the body lay. ‘It is goods I find. And from them people.’

‘So you would ask around and see who had bought up the stolen goods?’ asked Maria.

‘In a way. The way I find people out is not by what they sell but how they sell it.’

Charlie frowned.

‘I think I should see the scene now. I mean not to offend you but I had rather not stay longer than I must in this house.’

‘Yes.’ Maria collected herself.

A few little beds were arranged downstairs, presumably for the younger children and perhaps Maria herself.

The uneasy feeling stirred again in the pit of his stomach.

‘Where is the rest of your family?’ he asked.

‘They have fled London,’ said Maria. ‘Father travelled with the children to an aunt in Clapham. To stay safe from plague.’

‘But you did not go with your family to refuge?’

‘No. I stayed to attend to . . . To this injustice.’

For some reason, her choice of words sounded alarm bells in his mind.

He looked back at Maria. She seemed so respectable. Was there something she wasn’t telling him?

‘I have the money,’ she said, sensing his sudden mistrust. ‘Here.’ Maria pulled out a purse and selected a guinea from its jangling contents. ‘For seeing the situation up there,’ she added, placing the coin meaningfully on the small table.

Charlie looked away from the money and up towards the
ceiling
. Upstairs would be a further few bedrooms. And the body.

‘It is up that ladder,’ said Maria, pointing to the entrance to the second level. They both stood for a moment, looking at the
opening
.

Charlie paused. A strong instinct was warning him not to go upstairs. He pushed it down, attributing it to the prospect of viewing gory remains. But every sense in his body was suddenly telling him to run as far and as fast as he could.

Maria turned to face him, and her blue eyes had become dark with feeling.

‘Please,’ she said.

Her devastation set his resolve. She’d lost a sister. The least he could do was try to help.

‘I know not what information I might give you,’ he said slowly. ‘But you have my word I will try my hardest to read the scene.’

He took a step towards the ladder, forcing his legs to move. Then, bringing his lavender posy closer to his mouth he walked back towards the stair and began to climb.
Think of the guinea
, he muttered to himself. Behind him he heard Maria’s sigh of relief.

‘I will wait down here,’ she said. ‘I cannot bear to see the
scene anew
.’

The words buzzed meaninglessly as a fresh flood of unease swept through Charlie. Maria’s good looks had helped blind him to the danger. But now reality was hitting him hard.

His feet felt leaden as he took his first step onto the ladder, and then the next. He concentrated on the wooden rungs, the whorls and lines of the wood, polished to a dark shine by constant use. One hand
followed the next, with the reluctant rest of him following on behind.

Chapter Seven

The landlord of the Old Bell on Fleet Street gave his guest another uneasy glance. Plague doctors always made him nervous. But this one was worse than most.

To begin with he’d not taken the time to remove his unwieldy beaked mask or take off the flat crystal goggles. Instead a portion of a pale neck had been unswaddled for eating while the disc eyes stared out over the table.

Then there was the sheer size of him. The bulk beneath the canvas covering was so enormous the landlord found himself wondering how the hulking body fitted beneath. It was as though a monster had come to dine.

The landlord watched in undisguised revulsion as the cloaked man forced down his third plate of gizzards. He didn’t seem to have the usual manners of the physician class. Despite his huge frame, the man attacked the food as though he were starved. He had already devoured the remains of a rabbit stew and a joint of meat which had been expected to last the week, along with two bottles of cheap Canary wine.

The landlord had wanted to deny him entry but by law he was obliged to serve plague doctors. So he kept as far as possible from the monstrous guest, lest he breathe infected air. Besides, his alehouse was completely empty. He supposed he should be grateful for the custom.

Working the tavern the landlord had become an expert in gauging background. As more food disappeared down the gullet of his ravenous customer the more convinced he became that the man was not of a medical kind. Perhaps he had stolen or bought the costume to earn money from unsuspecting dupes.

And there was something . . .
unwholesome
about the way this
man forced down plate after plate of food. As though he were feeding
some demon as opposed to a grumbling stomach. The act of eating had greased the small exposed portion of his lower face with whitish sweat. And in his haste to despatch the gizzards he had missed his thick lips, smearing a daub of bloody entrails on
the mask
.

The landlord suppressed an involuntary shudder and forced himself to pick up a flagon and approach the visitor.

‘Small beer?’ he hovered uncertainly.

His attentions were rewarded with the wave of a bloated glove, strained to bursting point with its load of fat fingers. As he moved closer to the figure he noticed there was something unexpectedly solid about the shape. From the size of him the landlord had imagined rolls of fat, but now he was closer he could see the bull-like neck was muscular. There was a smell too. A strong musky scent emanating from the body which the man had evidently tried to mask with lavender. But instead of disguising the odour the cloying floral acted as a conduit, throwing the hot stench wider from the perspiring body. Turning his head away the landlord leaned in and filled the tankard.

‘Do you treat plague nearby?’ he asked.

The head shook, but the mouth kept chewing.

‘These are dreadful times indeed,’ said the landlord conversation
ally. ‘For nothing that is done in the city can seem to stem the tide.’

The monster said nothing.

‘You must be right hungry,’ tried the landlord with a little high laugh, gesturing to the pile of empty plates. This time the iron mask swung so that the glittering crystal eyes were full on his face.

‘Before Cromwell won the Civil War I was a soldier,’ came the voice in a rumbling growl. ‘They held us under siege for three long months and we starved to yellow skeletons. Since the horrors of that time I have a healthy appetite.’

The landlord swallowed, wishing he hadn’t raised the issue. He had heard enough tales of Civil War atrocities to last a lifetime.

‘Shall I take these for now or should I take a name and charge you later?’ He pointed to the empty plates.

‘How much?’ The response was grunting, begrudging.

‘Six shillings,’ said the landlord. It was the most he’d charged for a single guest’s meal in quite some time.

‘I will pay half now. Send for the rest.’

The doctor withdrew a fat purse but to the landlord’s dismay it was only filled with small coins. This did not bode well for extending credit. Three shillings in groats were counted out in neat rows and the mask turned up expectantly.

‘What name?’ asked the landlord, extending his arm to pull the money towards him whilst keeping as far as possible from the plague doctor.

‘Thomas Malvern.’

‘That is your name?’ The landlord was confused. It sounded like an aristocrat’s surname. Commoners had names like Tanner, or Fisher or Goldsmith after their family trade.

‘It is an old family name,’ said the man. ‘But our house and lands were confiscated by Cromwell after the Civil War.’

The landlord nodded, only half hearing. It was a familiar enough story. Those who had fought on the side of the old King were mostly aristocrats. When Cromwell won he had first beheaded King Charles senior. Then he had rewarded his own followers with the lands and titles of the old aristocratic order who had fought against him.

The landlord put down a slate for the man to scratch his address and was surprised to see the hand write a local residence. He didn’t know any plague doctors who lived nearby.

‘Will you take anything else?’ By now the landlord was willing the guest to depart, although heaven knew he could do with the extra money with the city emptying out by the day.

In his discomfort the landlord picked up the flagon too quickly, spilling a little beer on the costume.

‘Here, I will make amends,’ he said, unthinkingly grabbing for the canvas to prevent the liquid soaking into it further. Thomas grasped for the cloak and as he did so the mask shifted to reveal
his face
.

The landlord’s face registered dawning recognition and then horror.

Their eyes locked, and the landlord felt a surge of fear.

The doctor clamped the disguise back down again but the landlord had already seen. It was a face he knew well.

‘
You
.’ As the words sprang unwittingly from his mouth he knew he was a dead man. Whatever the reason for travelling in disguise and under a false name, this man should not want his secret known.

‘I did not think you were permitted to practice as a physician,’ gabbled the landlord, fear making his speech into nonsense.

‘I am not permitted to do anything much at all.’

The landlord nodded as he retreated to the further side of the inn. He feigned turning one of the barrels whilst he rummaged for the loaded pistol he kept hidden.

He heard the scrape of a sword being drawn but he didn’t have time to turn. The heavy butt of the handle splintered the side of his skull, felling him in a single blow.

Thomas leaned over the twitching body to assure himself the life’s light had gone out of his erstwhile host.

He returned to his seat on the rough bench and unfurled a map of the City. Then taking a stick of charcoal he made a careful cross on the alehouse where he currently sat.

The charcoal paused for a moment, as Thomas noted with pleasure the other crosses.

Pleased with his progress he drew the remaining dish of food towards him. And with a shovelling stoicism, he finished his plate of gizzards.